Dragon Realm Scorch

The Fire Breach Post served both as a small military installation and trading post just on the edge of the Ember Sands. The desert heat stagnated the air with its dryness while the perpetually angry hot sun glowered on the outpost from high in the sky.

Guster threw his leather coat over his shoulder as he entered the Buzzard's Cantina. Ever thankful for the miracle of frost magic, he ordered a chilled glass of beer and situated himself in a far corner of the cantina, where he could keep an eye on the entrance. The glass's frost rune gave off a soft glow as it rapidly cooled the mug. He kicked a cowhide boot on top of the sturdy wooden table and leaned his chair back, creaking on the dusty floorboards. Tipping his derby hat down to the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and listened to the various chatty gossip from the patrons at the neighboring tables.

“I swears there's a city in the Nightlands! I seen it in a dream!” a young prospector told his companion.

“Oh, I'm sure ye did, Erik. An' I be the Queen of Chains! Pour out ye beer, ye had enough.”

“Mayhaps you're right, Treth, I've had enough. You do look a bit more attractive,” said Erik,

ending with a high-pitched hiccup.

Guster smirked and listened to another conversation.

“Hey Valik, hear those mages be gathering up their best students for a secret tournament,” nudged a salt trader.

“Yeah, if it's a secret, how did you hear about it?” asked Valik, unconvinced.

“Me brother's friend has a cousin, who has a sister, who has a friend, who heard it from a mage apprentice.”

“Sounds like a trustworthy source.”

Guster shook his head and strained his hearing towards an old man mumbling between gulps of mead.

“I was there, I seen it. A city of dragons! They guard somethin', I swear, knights wielding swords that can melt through stone. I ain't never heard of steel that sharp! Not even the Ironguard has an armory like that!”

Guster grinned at the thought of having a set of daggers like that. He imagined never needing matches to light his bliss sticks again. He took notice of a scraggly, pale man limping towards him. Several long scrolls filled his arms. He collapsed into a chair and spilled them across Guster's table and spoke with a rushed wheeze as if he’d run across the wastes on foot with no rest.

“I have them all, as promised,” the gaunt man said, “but I need your help!”

“Sket, you done well. Dese everythin’ I asked for?” asked Guster, pleased with the thief. He pawed each scroll, quickly scanning their wax seals. Each bore the emblem of the Citadel of Keepers pressed into the red wax.

“Guster, Citadel Hounds are chasing me,” quivered Sket with fear looming in his golden eyes, “they'll be here soon to sniff me out and kill me. You need to protect me,”

“Wait, wait, wait! Need to protect you?” Guster held up his hands and shook his head. “I ain't got to do a damn thing! I paid you to steal de info dat I needed. You’re supposed to be de best thief in Scorch! How are you goin’ to get caught?”

Sket narrowed his eyes, “I'm not the best thief, I'm the cheapest! I'm altering the deal. Protect me and you can have these scrolls.”

Guster broke the seal on the scroll closest to him and glimpsed it over. A map of a wide-stretched desert with a Guardian Phoenix sketched in the corner. Guster recognized the mark of the nearby city of Nacsirri; this was the Desert of the Damned. An interesting marking at the center puzzled him. He'd never seen something like that on a map before. He curled up the parchment all the same and went to grab a second, but Sket snatched it away.

“You can look at them when you agree to protect me from the Hounds.”

Guster growled in annoyance. “Gimme de scroll, Sket, else it won't be de Hounds you need to worry about.”

Sket dropped the scroll in defeat and slumped into a chair. Guster unraveled the scroll.

Year 1457, the twelfth moon, the seventh sun

A man of gargantuan size approached the Citadel gates, draped in a long, black, hooded traveler's cloak with a notable symbol on its back: a white-trimmed black snowflake with twin blue crescent moons in its center. The man claimed he represented one Duke Alifinster Fen. When asked what Lord Fen needed, he said he wanted information of a particular rune and its location. We have quite the catalog of runes, their meanings, and last known locations. Acquiring the information was not the problem. However, our records are not open to the public and we pride ourselves in our exclusivity. Lord Fen's servant was informed as such. The man introduced himself as Uther Irohsoam and that under any normal circumstances he would not be asking for information, but taking it. We were not intimidated… perhaps only slightly.

He continued to inform us that his master was prepared to donate a handsome amount of gold sendetti to the Citadel in exchange for the information he sought. Several parts of the Citadel are in desperate need of maintenance so we reluctantly agreed to give Lord Fen what he asked for. Replications only, nothing original, of course. What he sought from such a rune might concern kings and great men, but we are observers to history, not players in it; we record, not question.

Guster finished reading and took hold of the last scroll, however he frowned in disappointment. “Dis one's water logged. Like wine was spilled onto it.”

Sket fidgeted in his seat, “I may have been a bit clumsy while procuring that one.”

“Damn it, Sket!” Guster looked over the map again, studying the distance of Nacsirri from his own location. “If Uther is travelin’ to de Desert of de Damned, he’ll need a guide.” Guster calculated how long it would take to get to Nacsirri on foot. “Nacsirri is where he’d find dat guide. Only yikahtis know dere way through dat desert- besides myself. Yikahtis are pretty rare in dis part of Scorch.” Guster rolled the scroll back up and stuck it in his jacket. “Uther's goin’ to be in Nacsirri for sometime, dat be my chance to catch up with him.” Guster gritted his teeth, he needed a quicker way to Nacsirri besides by wagon. “Your uncle owns a merchant ship, don’t he? I need passage to Nacsirri.”

Sket's sunken eyes lit up. “Protection for passage!”

Guster glanced at the entrance of the cantina as two looming men entered the bar. They wore ornate leather armor of basilisk hide, and brilliant green capes with a sea-blue trim draped their

left shoulders. They bear the emblem of the Citadel around their necks and armed with wickedly curved scimitars.

Guster snarled. These Citadel Hounds’ tracking skills were only matched by their combat prowess. It would not be an easy fight for him, but he needed this deal. The two men nodded to the bartender, who ran out of the establishment, more than happy to leave the Hounds to their business.

“Fine, stand back, Sket.” Guster pushed Sket behind the table as he strolled up to the two Hounds.

Guster darted his keen blue eyes towards the bar and grimaced. Entering the Buzzard's Cantina automatically meant that one would abide by the establishment’s no-weapons rules for the duration of one’s stay, and ordinarily, a whole armory’s worth of swords, knives and other weapons was tucked safely away behind the bar. Normally Guster wouldn't volunteer to part with his coat full of throwing knives, but as it were, Fire Breach Post was the only hint of civilization in the Ember Sands for miles in any direction. If Guster wanted to defeat the Hounds and get onto that merchant ship, he would need to be creative. Luckily, he fancied himself an artist.

One of the Hounds up heaved a table, clattering it to the ground. The commotion did the trick as the cantina quickly emptied save for Guster and Sket. One of the Hounds stared fiercely at the nervous thief before focusing his attention on Guster, who casually approached them.

“Out of our way!” the Hound commanded, “we are on Citadel business. It does not concern you,”

“Your business is my business, Hound,” replied Guster.

The Hounds brandished their swords. “You will regret crossing us.”

Guster stepped backwards and threw up his hands. He made a quick search of his surroundings. Tables, chairs, tin dishes, glass mugs, glass bottles, a bar, and two enemies.

Sket gulped as Guster doubled backed on his side of the agreement. The Hounds grinned cruelly as they passed by Guster.

Taking two glass bottles from a neighboring table, Guster smashed them across the back of the mens' skulls. “Waste of a good drink,” he muttered underneath his breath.

The savage attack left both men collapsing to their knees.

As they tried to recover to deal with their assailant, Guster plunged the jagged broken bottles into his opponents. One into the side of a throat, the other not as accurate, ending up into a shoulder.

The lesser wounded of the men lunged and tackled Guster, crashing the bounty hunter through a table.

Guster lay dazed in the splintered mess as the Hound, now disarmed, chose to pummel his face with his good arm.

Guster put up a single arm as a guard and grabbed the next fist about to collide with his face. Heaving his torso up, he rolled his opponent over him so that he was now on top of him. He grabbed the Hound’s throat and throttled it.

The Hound slid a kris from his sash and plunged the wavy dagger into Guster’s thigh. The bounty hunter yelped in pain and leaped off of him.

Guster inspected his wound, ripping out the blade and throwing it to the ground in frustration.

“You finally got a shot in!” Guster smirked.

The Hound eyed his sword laying out of reach and then refocused his attention back on Guster. “It would benefit you to surrender,” he responded, “leave the thief in my custody.”

Guster raised his fists and took a large step forward to close the gap between them. Ignoring the gash in his leg, he threw a right hook that rocked his opponent’s jaw and threw him off balance.

Guster grabbed a nearby chair. Spinning around with the backrest tightly gripped, he smashed it across the back of the man, slamming him hard to the ground.

Sket slowly shuffled over to the Hound, who struggled to rise and reach for his sword. With a series of swift kicks to the back of his head, Sket dispatched him for good.

Guster limped to the bar, leaning on his good leg, he poured himself a glass of whiskey.

Downing the drink in a single gulp, he beckoned Sket over to him.

“You owe me a boat trip.”